


Distraction

by amarmeme



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Honest Sex, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Talk, Relationship Discussions, Sexual Frustration, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 05:26:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11434089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarmeme/pseuds/amarmeme
Summary: Verita's having a hard time getting off. Maybe there's more than just the hot weather getting under her skin.Verita and Michel have an honest discussion about why she's so distracted.





	Distraction

**Author's Note:**

> Celebrating a little Sex, Laughter, Honesty Week 2017. I don't know if they're very funny, but it is at least completely honest!
> 
> See the inspirational, [very nsfw gif](https://nsfwfrosch.tumblr.com/post/159199166657/verita-and-michel-de-chevin-for-amarmeme-lots-of) for this scene. 

 

“I just want to come.”

Verita’s burning up, hair plastered to her forehead and neck, a bead of sweat trickling down her spine. Despite the open window, their bedroom swelters, still warm from a windless summer day that pervades into night. A single candle is the only light in the stuffy room, yet it threatens to extinguish itself soon, wax down to a nub no thicker than a thumb. The flickering flame pops while Michel attempts to soothe Verita. He runs his palms over her sweat slick skin, whispering encouragingly into her ear.

“I know, _mon coeur_ ,” he says. He holds her hips gently. “What can I do?”

The concern is appreciated; she knows he's been holding off, but irritation leaches out regardless.

“Nothing,” she says. Then, “it's too hot?”

She can’t make up her mind. Verita sits up and arches her back, trying to fan air over her body with her hand. “I'm too... I... _just can't_!”

She dips her head backwards, hair cascading over her shoulders like a waterfall in the dark of night, midnight waves rippling with the sway of her body. The ends brush Michel’s thighs and he flinches as they tickle his legs. Her hair has grown so long since the Winter Palace, since she lost her arm. Verita didn't have the heart to cut it before -- a justifiably formed aversion to change -- but now that a few stray pieces cling to her sticky neck, she vows it needs to be hacked off.

Michel says nothing, sitting up to gather her hair aside. Verita tips unexpectedly, caught off balance from his movement, yet Michel steadies her with a strong arm around her waist. They've been making love for what seems like hours, yet instead of ecstasy pooling deep within, Verita's irritation chafes like a trapped bee. In her affected state, every annoyance is compounded an inordinate amount, an angry buzz building up inside her. With the pieces of hair stuck to her nape and only one hand to fan her body, pull the strands aside, and catch herself from teetering over, Verita finally snaps. The sting of irritation sends her flying upward, swearing at the Creators, the hot weather, everything.

Michel lets her slip easily from his grasp, then scoots up against the headboard. His cock’s still hard, twitching as he settles. Verita scowls at it from where she stands at the side of the bed, as if it has offended her in the worst possible way. He laughs, abdomen contracting and making it jump more.

“I know that look. The last time I saw it a man lost his head.” He covers himself with a hand. “I hope you want me to keep this one.”

Verita rolls her eyes while finding something to chuck at his _actual_ head, channeling her best Cassandra. “Ugh,” she groans. She grabs her pillow and attempts to hit him with it, but Michel deflects easily. The pillow careens to the floor as he lunges to grab her. He catches Verita and tugs her backwards into his lap. His erection is solid against her back and she squirms in place, still irritated by the ease of his arousal. There's not much use in it; the fight rushes out of her just as quick as it came on.

“I don't know what's wrong,” she says, defeated. “We should just go to sleep. If you want I can help you finish.” Verita tries to keep the pout out of her voice at that idea. At least someone would be satisfied.

“I don’t think so. We’re not sleeping either.”

His hands are nice and warm and wide around her small waist, and though her desire has waned to a pinprick of light, even smaller than the flame that flutters by their bed, Verita can’t help but melt a little at his touch.

“Something’s bothering you,” he says, fixing her still. “You’ve been distracted all day. What’s happened?”

Verita sighs, fully relaxing into her lover’s embrace. Michel dusts light kisses at the juncture of her neck, tickling her slightly with the brush of his lips and a day’s worth of stubble. He's right of course. He knows her mind well; it is one of the things she loves about him, about their relationship. There’s more than just the heat getting under her skin and he's been patiently waiting to bring it up. All afternoon she boiled silently, plodding through the house, putting the note that came from her sister aside and trying to concentrate on anything else. Verita didn’t know how to bring it up at first, and even now she’s been caught out the words feel a little too dramatic. Not calling the topic to attention as soon as she received the note makes it a much larger issue now. While she contemplates, Michel rests his chin on her shoulder, steady breathing subduing her prickling impatience.   

“I had a letter today from Wycome.”

“You did?”

“Mmhm,” she murmurs. Verita rubs her thumb over his topmost wrist and tries to keep any revealing emotion from her voice.

“And it contained news that's distracted you all day.”

Verita nods and Michel shimmies her a little in his hold. “Go ahead,” he says, trying to coax the secret out of her.

With a whoosh the words come rushing out. “My sister is with child.”

Unexpectedly, Verita thinks she can feel him laugh silently behind her, just one chuckle.

“Was that a laugh?” she asks, incredulous. To think he'd find it a joke -- the surprising news hardly amused her in the same way. What does that even mean -- his laughing?

He hums assertively. “Of relief!” He shows his palms, pleading for a little mercy. She still has one sharp elbow. “Corweth’s done something this time and not me. I began to worry with that look earlier. Are you just upset with her, or there’s more to it? More to do with us, that is.”

“I’m not sure,” she admits. Verita cranes her neck to look at him. Michel’s sharp blue eyes are calm, considering. The conversation is still nerve-wracking, but he makes it feel ordinary. She shrugs. “We haven't talked about the possibility before.”

“Not with so many words,” he says, sliding a hand down over her soft stomach. “But truthfully it could have happened many times over by now.”

“And you're okay with that? Having a child? Not that I'm suggesting we try _right_ now -- I just can't stop thinking about it. Sylaise knows Corweth's far from perfect, but at this point she'd be a far better mother than me.”

“Not true, you are more caring than anyone I know.”

“You're from Orlais. That's hardly a fair assessment.”

He laughs aloud this time, smirking into her hair and squeezing her with the arm bandied about her chest. His laughter is contagious, and Verita giggles despite herself.

“Fine,” he concedes. “But even though I didn't have much to properly judge by before, I know you. You're loving, kind, considerate, patient.”

“Not so patient now,” she interrupts. She's wallowing in her frustration and not willing to hear the list of positives. It's not so much her disposition that worries Verita, rather her responsibilities. She looks down, where the arm that held magic far more mysterious and greater than her own used to be.

“What if we did have a child and something like the Breach happens again? It's been a year, but I don't think Solas has changed his mind.” She takes a deep breath. “Is it selfish to want a child when the world is threatened? What if something terrible happens? Would I be able to leave our babe behind in order to do what needs to be done? Does that make me a bad mother? What if I'm not so lucky next time and instead of an arm I'm losing my life?”

She's wound up, actually rising a little with each impossible question, but Michel won’t let go. She digs her fingers into his arm.  

“Verita,” he says. “A truly selfish person wouldn't ask these questions. You’d make the right choice. I've seen you do it countless times. All that matters is that you love them and...” Michel pauses in the middle of his thought, grasping at some memory. He doesn't continue.

She pats his arm consolingly. “You're not wrong. I _would_ love them. But do you even want that? I could understand why it might not be appealing.”

“If you want a child, in earnest, I would gladly see it happen. It may be the most pleasurable task I've been set upon in my entire life.”

“Really?”

“Of course.” He moves a hand up to tuck her hair behind an ear, then kisses the pointed tip. “Though--”

“Though what?” She cranes awkwardly to see his face.

His brows furrow, trying to determine whether or not to say what he's thinking. She can tell a lot from the pause, it's something to do with his past, his long hidden past. They rarely talk about it, though that's not to say they never have before. The first time they were together they spent the entire evening discussing the secrets of his youth, and all it entailed, especially his mother. “Oh,” she says, suddenly understanding.

“It's not likely our children would look like their beautiful mother,” he says. The trace of sadness is there, if you listen carefully. Verita is an excellent listener. “Would that bother you?”

She thinks for a moment, considering her lover’s face. It’s so very handsome, so open and honest. What she says in response has the potential to be an indictment of who he is. The weight of that is much heavier than she’d intended with the conversation, not that the conversation was intended at all. Their child would be just like him though: born of an elven mother and an Orlesian, human father. She can picture a little blond boy running wild with a wooden sword, banged up knees and bare feet. Little rounded ears and fat, rounded human cheeks. She realizes she’s never thought of her own child this way, though to be fair she didn’t so often think of children before. They were always a far-fetched plan, hazy futures like a mirage in the Western Approach. Being First kept her far too occupied; there was no time for dreams of small children. Then after the Conclave...

She drifts back to think of the little boy, a miniature of Michel. Now that he's there, in her mind’s eye, the prospect of a human-looking child isn't too hard to bear. She could still pass along all that truly mattered. Without her vallaslin, she doesn't look like she belongs either. It's what is in your heart that counts.

“I can think of worse things than raising handsome sons,” she says. Relief passes over his expression, eyes wide and smile widening with them. “They're just ears, Michel. It's not as if they wouldn't be mine because of it.”

He lets out a breath and grins like he’s won a fight, wickedly boastful. “Sons,” he says, exaggerating the ‘s’. “If you have many in mind then we’ve a lot of work to do.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now. Why not?”

His hands, lovely, thick hands, run up her sides, fingertips leaving trails of shivering sensations in their wake. One drifts to gather unruly hair, coiling and tucking it between the press of their bodies before it can get in the way again. Verita rests her head back against him, softly kissing his cheek.

“It wasn’t working so well before.”

“You were distracted.” He nibbles an ear. His hands explore, fingers skimming over her hipbones, down between her thighs. Verita's breath hitches.

“And I’m not now?”

Michel parts her legs, wide. “If I can’t get your attention like this, I’m afraid we’re essentially hopeless.” His calloused fingers curl into her softness. “We’ll just never have a child.” Middle fingers press down and begin to circle at the apex of her thighs. She laughs in response, the sound quickly turning into a groan.

“We don’t -- have to start -- today,” she says after a minute, panting. The rhythm he sets is marvelous; she tips her neck back and cants her hips forward.

Michel presses an open-mouth kiss to her shoulder, tongue flicking against the soft skin. It's salty still, sweat from their failed lovemaking before. He squeezes her breast at the same time. A shiver runs down her spine and Verita no longer worries about the heat or whether she’ll be a good mother one day, whenever that is.

“I follow your lead,” he says. “I will do anything you ask of me.”

“I love when you say things like that,” she admits. Her voice is full of light and warmth, honeyed and sweet now that all the irritation from before has flown away.

“I love when you come,” he whispers.  

“S _athan_ ,” she whimpers. “ _Make me._ ”

Michel chuckles, pleased with himself and how she's reacting. His fingers never quit, quick and determined as he always is, carrying her into a state of bliss, warmth of a different sort suffusing her limbs. She feels it all the way to the soles of her feet. It's surprising how quickly she can become aroused after feeling so uncomfortable in her own skin, but with a clear head and a lover with infinite stamina intent on her satisfaction, there's no way to focus on anything besides the points where they touch. After their talk, her thoughts only center on the way he feels around her, enveloping her and holding her tight. She ruts against nothing, hips moving forward, surrendering to sensation, a poor mimicry of what she really wants deep down.

When she comes it's easy-- back arched, heels dug into the bedcovers, Michel’s fingers moving as fast as her breathing, faster than she can catch up with. The flood of sparkling warmth spirals outwards before her, and Verita could cry in joy, so relieved at the release. She actually laughs as she ramps down from the high, sighs mixed with contented snorts of glee.

Michel grins against the back of her neck, kissing there before tipping her forward, hands tracing her spine. She falls to her forearm and splays her hand wide for better balance and lazily repositions, knees on the other side of his hips. He helps lower her onto himself, guiding the tip in slowly, achingly from behind. She mewls a little as his cock rests fully inside.

“Still not distracted?”

“Noooo,” she coos. “You have my full attenti-- _ooooo_!”

He pushes up on her hips then snaps them back down. “Good, it's my turn.”

She takes control, slowly riding him, hips rocking into a gentle, teasing glide. The view must be tantalizing. Michel groans loudly, gripping her ass and assisting her movements.

“Your pussy is gorgeous,” he says, Orlesian accent thick. Verita flushes at the dirty compliment, arching her back further in response. She presents an even better view and draws out exaggerated movements with her hips, wishing she could see what he sees. “Will you come again?” he asks, voice tight.

Verita looks back to catch his expression: heavy lidded eyes and parted lips. His blue eyes seem darker, deeper. She grins. “You can finish, _vhen'an."_

“Are you sure?”

Verita nods; though it feels quite good, the slick slide and the satisfying fullness that comes when she’s seated, she knows her own body. Once was miracle enough for the night. In the end, it doesn’t take too long for Michel to come -- they’re both tired and he’d held off quite admirably earlier. He breathes heavily, words thick with desire and spoken on an exhale. “ _Je vais bientôt jouir._ ” It sends a thrill right to the heart; making him speak Orlesian is a treat. 

She doesn't stop him from spending himself inside of her, rather encourages it, tutting as he tries to pull away, push her up. Maybe they _will_  start tonight; it's up to fate to decide.  Whether they have a child or not, delicate pointed ears or no, Verita knows it will be alright -- whatever happens, they’ll walk the path together.

**Author's Note:**

> Elvhen from Project Elvhen, French for Orlesian from Reddit, so forgive me if I'm wrong. :)
> 
> Mon coeur -- my heart  
> Sathan -- Please  
> Vhen’an -- My love (of course we all know this by now. ;))  
> Je vais bientôt jouir -- I’m going to come.


End file.
